The no-holds-barred tale of a Chicago-based thirty-something living the so-called dream

Sititng here watching MTV’s Catfish with Not-so-Carrie while she sets up an online dating profile, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d be an excellent candidate to host this show should one of the hosts be unable to stick with it. Partly because I may as well have “Professional Googler” listed as a marketable skill on my résumé.]

And you can bet your happy ass that I’ll be utilizing these skills as she gets ready to meet up with these men.

Allow me to elaborate.

A few weeks back, she’d been visiting a 31-year-old Adderall-snorting toolbag (sorry, but it’s only cool if you’re 25 and under) who’d bought her a plane ticket to see him. Needless to say, she didn’t enjoy the weekend and he was dropped like a pen that wouldn’t be picked back up via the Bend and Snap technique perfected in Legally Blonde.

She did, however, meet a hot Canadian on the flight back.

What didn’t she do though? Get his last name, Facebook, or join the Mile High Club. Fail, fail, and epic fail.

This is where I come into the picture (as if I was ever out of it to begin with).

As she was telling me about the hot Canadian, I was searching Google and Facebook for a guy with the same first name who’d gone to school in a certain state, played hockey, and worked in a certain profession.

Less than five minutes later: success. I’d tracked him down.

I. Am. Amazing.

So consider this a warning, boys. Fuck with my Goddess of the Gays and it’s war. Don’t try to Catfish her, and no one gets hurt. Well…at least not physically. Let’s face it. I’m not about to break a nail.

The modern misadventures of a twentysomething transplant from Nebraska, trying to navigate Chicago. Many gays love meddling with my life, for better and for worse. Fortunately, I'm a less horse-faced version of Carrie Bradshaw, that, unfortunately, never gets any action.